


Only Son

by rabidchild67



Series: Origins [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Child Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Teen Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU telling of how Neal and Mozzie met, and why Neal never finished high school. </p><p>Continues my Origins set of pre-series fics, but can be read standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Son

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written and published during Season 1, therefore before we had any of Neal or Moz's backstories.

Peter crawled back into bed after seeing Elizabeth off in her cab to the airport. She was headed to Boston for the day to meet with a potential client. Peter snuggled up against Neal, burying his nose in his neck and throwing a leg over both of his.

“Cold nose!” Neal protested, but nuzzled Peter back just the same, pulling him in closer. “Elizabeth make it out on time?”

“Barely.” Peter lay his head on Neal’s chest and sighed. Now that daylight saving time had kicked in, the sun was angling in through the blinds across their bed at an earlier hour, painting stripes of light across Neal’s bare torso. Peter traced a finger down the faint scar that ran medially down his abdomen, glowing silver-pink in the sunlight. “You never told me how you got this,” Peter murmured.

He could feel Neal tense up. He flattened his hand on Neal’s belly. “I’m sorry.”

Neal ran his forefinger across his upper lip, his one and only tell. Peter had gone too far. “No, you should know,” he said, his tone a bit clipped.

Peter raised himself up on his elbow and looked Neal in the eyes. “Not if you don’t want to tell, babe.”

Neal’s face softened and his eyes took on the far-away cast of memory. “I haven’t thought about it in a very long time.”

\----

**August, 1996**

The young man spots his mark as he leaves the office building on Water Street. He’s been following the man off and on for a month, getting to know his routine. He knows that on Thursdays he heads uptown to throw a hump into his mistress, but that he’ll stop at the bank first to withdraw a fat pile of cash. Thursday nights he also takes her out for dinner and he likes to throw hundreds around like party favors. Big shot.

Not today. Today’s the day the young man will relieve him of his cash. And he’ll thank him for it.

He follows the Big Shot closely, biding his time, leaning on the wall just around the corner of the bank. When the Big Shot emerges from the bank, the young man falls into step just behind him. They move with the flow of the foot traffic on the busy street. It is a pleasant and sunny day for late August in New York, and all the secretaries are out and about on their lunch hours. The young man smiles at a pair of them that walk toward him; they look at him, dismiss him. The young man is, alas, still a boy. This doesn’t stop them from checking out his ass once they’ve walked past, though.

The Big Shot hurries on toward his waiting car, parked across the busy street. He arrives at the corner, steps into the street and looks up, down, awaiting a break in the traffic so he can cross. The Big Shot is horny and too impatient to wait for the lights to change. This is when the young man makes his move. He spots an empty water bottle in the gutter, kicks it over as the Big Shot is taking an impatient step forward. The timing is perfect. As the bottle trips up the Big Shot, a Yellow Cab comes speeding along the street, horn blaring. The young man grabs the Big Shot by the arm, pulling him from harm’s way and spinning him around. As he does so, he deftly reaches into the man’s jacket and removes his bundle of cash, money clip and all. “Oh my God, are you OK?” the young man exclaims, slipping the cash into the messenger bag slung across his body.

“What the hell. Did you see that guy?” the Big Shot says, shaken. “Hey, thanks, kid. You really saved my bacon.”

“Don’t mention it. I only did what anyone would have done.”

“Let me repay you,” he said, reaching for this jacket pocket.

“Oh no,” the young man urged, too quickly. Shit, he hadn’t considered this might happen. “It’s OK. It’s my good deed for the day.”

“Well, let me give you a ride or something. My car’s over there. What’s your name?”

The young man smiled, touching the brim of the battered grey trilby perched on his head. “Nick. Nick Halden.”

\----

Neal patted the Town Car on the trunk as it pulled away after dropping him off on Central Park West. Once it was out of sight, he turned and headed for the subway to head back downtown, so he could hop the PATH train home to NJ. He waited until he was just outside his apartment door to take the money out and count it. Two thousand bucks – his biggest score yet. He slipped five hundred into the lining of his hat; he’d visit the bank tomorrow. The rest he slipped back into the bag, then took out his keys and let himself into the one bedroom apartment.

He found his old man sprawled on the couch in front of the TV, watching a soap opera. David Caffrey was a near mirror image of his son, taller and with broader shoulders, but there was no mistaking the were father and son. However, where the younger man had an open and honest face, David’s was pinched from years of hard time and harder drinking, aged well beyond his 45 years, nose dotted purple with gin blossoms.

He rose as Neal entered the apartment, limped over to join him at the small kitchen table. The elder Caffrey had been an accomplished cat burglar in his day, but a bad fall had led to an artificial knee and a ten-year stint in Rahway that had effectively ended that career. He’d been reduced to running small cons on retirees, not a vocation he was proud of, and had thankfully been able to stop now that he’d been reunited with his son.

Neal, who he hadn’t seen since the kid was five, was turning out to be quite the talented little grifter. As fast and nimble as his old man, the boy made bank on that innocent young face of his as well, and seeing him in action made David’s heart swell with pride sometimes. He figured Neal had picked up some skills while in foster care the previous year – he didn’t like to talk about it – but there was no doubt he was also a natural.

“How’d we do today?” David asked.

Neal pulled the money clip out of the bag and handed it over. “Fifteen hundred.”

“Fifteen? Oh, my boy, that’s excellent.” He chuffed Neal playfully on the chin and Neal barely suppressed a flinch. He gave David a genuine smile, though, relieved he hadn’t noticed.

Neal took the money back and peeled off five hundreds, heading over to the counter and pulling out a manila envelope. “For the rent, Dad,” he reminded him, returning the rest.

“Of course. It’s a good thing we have you to look after us.” He handed Neal a hundred and slipped the rest into his wallet, fingering the money clip. “Cartier. Huh. I know a fence downtown.”

“Mr. Rivers? I can head down there tomorrow.”

David smiled. The kid really thought of everything. “Yes. But, no. You’ve got an appointment tomorrow.”

“Appointment?”

“I got you an interview at that prep school on the West Side. Malden Academy.”

“Dad, the public school is fine. We can’t afford it, anyway.”

“Nah – it’s for a scholarship, Neal. You’re too smart to go to that crap public school. Besides, bound to be a few senators’ sons at that school. Think of the possibilities.”

Neal sighed. “Sure Dad. What time?”

\----

**October, 1996**

Neal sat at his table in art class, staring at the light rain falling outside. He yawned. The old man had been on a bender the day before and Neal had been up since three cleaning up puke and trying to get him to lie down and sleep. He’d finally dropped off at six, too late for Neal to have gotten any sleep himself. He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, looked over as the teacher entered.

It wasn’t Mrs. Lund who entered, but a short, balding man in his early 30’s. He wore a brown corduroy blazer with leather patches on the elbows, a worn-looking pink checked shirt and jeans. Neal noted the Doc Martens on his feet and the tan bandana tied around his throat and immediately thought, “This looks interesting.”

The teacher straightened to his full height and removed his glasses, regarding the class with a raised eyebrow. “Good morning, class. I’m Mr. Moskowitz. I’ll be subbing for Mrs. Lund, who has had to, um, attend to an emergency.” In reality, the woman’s husband had left her and she’d had a nervous breakdown, but Moskowitz wasn’t about to share that information. “I’ve got her lesson plan here in front of me and I see that you are working on sketching still-lifes.” He tossed the papers he held in his hand to the floor with disgust, eliciting titters of nervous laughter from the class.”How quaintly prosaic. I suppose it will have to do for today.” He took a vase and a bunch of silk flowers and plopped them on a table in the center of the room. “See what your mediocre talents can make of these. I’ll busy myself rewriting your syllabus.”

They looked at him, mouths slightly agape. “Chop-chop, children. We haven’t got all morning.” They bounced into action, retrieving pads, easels, charcoal and setting to it.

Neal sat at his station, sketching. He’d chosen to use pen and ink for this assignment. He preferred it for the detail he could set onto the paper; he didn’t like the mess and indistinct, feathery result from charcoal.

Moskowitz wandered around behind the students, evaluating their work. “That’s good, young lady,” he commented to Georgina Paulsen, president of the junior class. “You have a promising career ahead of you as a greeting card illustrator.”

Ouch, Neal thought, wincing. He had finished already, and was working on another piece in his own sketchpad, tracking Moskowitz’s movements around the room.

“Oh, I have no doubt you’ll find ample opportunities for your art,” he was saying to Ken Scofield, captain of the lacrosse team and son of the well-known Wall Street investment banker, “inking the specials board at Applebee’s.”

Neal smirked. He hated Scofield.

When Mr. Moskowitz reached Neal’s station, he said nothing, merely sniffed. He moved to the front of the classroom and turned to face them all. “The bell’s about to ring, so I’ll ask you all to file your work and clean up your stations. I’m not your maid. Let’s go.” Seventeen teenagers hopped from their seats and set about clearing up, Moskowitz eyeing them all with arms crossed disdainfully.

\----

Later that day, Neal maneuvered his lunch tray through the bustling cafeteria, finally setting it down beside his best friend Maddy. Maddy was another scholarship kid, tall and slender, with her dark hair cut into a Betty Page style that was completely at odds with the usual glossy, highlighted manes of the rest of the girls at the school. Maddy sang lead in an all-girl emo band after school, and if she were into guys, Neal would be in love with her.

“Hi honey,” Neal greeted her as he sat.

“How was your day, dear?” Maddy answered warmly. They amused themselves by talking as if they were a married couple in a 50’s sitcom.

“Twelve kinds of shitty. How about you?”

“Meh. Calc exam this afternoon.” Despite being only a freshman, Maddy was a math genius, which had gotten her the slot at Malden.

“There’s a new art teacher,” Neal said, taking a gulp from one of the milks on his tray.

“I heard. What’s his deal?”

“No idea. He’s a weird one. There he goes.” Moskowitz was walking toward the teacher’s cafeteria.

“What is with the neckerchief?” Maddy snarked. Neal grinned.

“What’re you looking at Caffrey?” Scofield sneered as he passed their table.

“Endless possibilities. My fortune cookie told me so.”

“Smartass. You know, you’re not getting any out of the dyke there.” He pointed his chin at Maddy.

“That’s Miss Dyke to you, Scofield,” Maddy replied, but Neal was already on his feet.

“Take that back.”

“Make me,” Scofield sneered, butting his chest against Neal’s. Neal was slender but muscular and athletic. Despite Scofield’s size advantage, he was pretty sure he could give as well as he got.

Maddy rose as well, pushed the two of them apart. “We can measure your dicks later, boys.” She said, pushing Neal back into his seat. Scofield sneered and backed away; some teachers had taken notice.

“I can take care of myself, Maddy,” Neal said, his face red.

“I’m sure you can, and then you’ll be bounced out of this school faster than you can say boo.” She put a hand on his cheek. “Don’t leave me here all alone, dear.”

“Sorry honey.” Neal shook his head and tried to forget all about it.

\----

The next morning, Neal spotted Scofield standing outside the art room, talking with a pretty blonde cheerleader. He reached his hand down and retrieved something from his pocket, tucked it up his sleeve. Taking a deep breath, he headed down the hall, whistling tunelessly. When he spotted him, he knew Scofield would have no choice but to engage him. But Neal was ready.

“Where’s your bodyguard, Caffrey?” the larger boy sneered.

“I’m going to say home room,” Neal answered, gesturing vaguely.

Scofield hulked over and stood menacingly over him. “I wasn’t done with you yesterday.”

Neal said nothing, but leaned toward him, a challenge evident on his face. Scofield snaked an arm out and clocked Neal with an elbow, knocking him against some lockers. Neal reached out for him, merely grabbing hold of his wrist before hitting the lockers, and subsequently his head. “Ow!”

The commotion drew Mr. Moskowitz’s attention, who had been approaching from down the hall. He rushed forward and regarded them both with a critical eye.

“Oh, hey, Mr. Moskowitz,” Scofield said. “Neal just tripped and I was helping him up.” He hauled Neal to his feet by the collar of his blazer. Neal had his hand in his own pocket.

Moskowitz gave him an appraising look, down and then up. “Cut the shit, Scofield. I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. Get out of here or I’ll see you in detention.” Scofield slouched off down the hall.

“You all right, kid?” he asked Neal.

Neal straightened out his jacket, rearranged his tie. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re Caffrey, right?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes sir.”

Moskowitz snorted. “Sir is what you call the cops. Come inside?” He pointed towards the empty classroom. He put his briefcase down on the desk and gestured with his chin. “Have a seat.”

Neal took a seat in the front row. Moskowitz leaned on the briefcase with his forearms, lowering his voice. “You know, there are easier ways to steal a watch than taking an elbow to the face.”

Neal’s face colored. Moskowitz had seen him lift Scofield’s watch. He was busted. He’d be kicked out of school for sure.

“Let’s see it.” The older man held out his hand and Neal reluctantly gave him the watch. He whistled, low. “Patek Philippe. Nice. Shame to have to cut the band, though – what’d you use, box cutter?”

“Exacto blade.” Neal muttered.

“Precision work, that. You’ve got a light touch. I should probably make you turn that in to lost and found at the very least.”

Neal looked him in the face, aggrieved. “That thing’ll make my rent for the next six months!”

“Which is why I’ll introduce you to a reputable fence instead.” He handed the watch back to Neal. “Stow it somewhere safe.”

Neal gave him a look approaching awe as he shoved the watch to the bottom of his messenger bag. “Now, the real reason I called you in here, Neal, is to talk with you about your art. You’ve got quite a lot of talent. Do you know that?”

He shrugged. “I just like to draw.”

“Ah, callow youth. Was it Oscar Wilde who said it was wasted on children?”

“Um, it was Shaw, I think.”

Moskowitz smiled – it was rare for him to be truly surprised by anyone. “You’re right. Tell me Neal, what do you like about drawing?”

\----

Over the course of the next several weeks, Mr. Moskowitz kept an eye out for Neal, both in the halls after the incident with that little asshole Scofield, and in the classroom where he helped him with his technique, assigning extra credit exercises designed to improve his eye. Eventually, he offered to teach Neal how to paint, and the two fell into a daily routine of after school tutoring in the art room. Moskowitz supplied the paints and canvases, and Neal supplied the enthusiasm and energy.

If he was honest with himself, he saw just a little bit of himself there. Smart, talented, obviously misunderstood, Neal was guarded and didn’t seem to open up to others easily, but when he did, he was the most charming creature Moskowitz had ever encountered. Thoughtful, observant and a natural talker, he thought the young man would go far.

“Here, try the shading this way,” Moskowitz said, adjusting the way Neal was holding the brush and demonstrating.

Neal took up the brush and repeated the technique, getting it perfect the first time. The kid was like a savant, never having to be shown anything twice, and often surpassing his teacher with practice. “Like this, Mr. Moz?”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“I told you I wouldn’t stop,” Neal smiled. “Moskowitz is a tongue-tier.”

Neal painted some more, small studies of a bowl of (actual) oranges that were set up on a table in front of them. Moskowitz was pleased with the young man’s progress.

“Mr. Moz, do you know how to break into a safe?” Neal asked suddenly, never taking his eyes off the canvas.

Moskowitz choked on the mug of tea he was drinking. “What makes you ask that?”

“Well, you seem to…know things…about things. Like pick pocketing and sleight of hand.” He looked Moskowitz in the eye then, unblinking. “I saw you palm that card the other day in the teacher’s break room.”

Moskowitz flinched. He was slipping. Or else Neal was the most observant kid on the planet. “I was doing it to prove a point,” he said defensively.

“Or to beat Mr. Meeks at gin rummy?”

“You’re getting too big for your britches, kid. But no, I’m not the best teacher for safes. Why do you want to know?”

“There are some gaps in my skillset.”

“Where do you learn to say things like that?” Moskowitz had his suspicions. He was fairly certain Neal’s old man was having him grift for him on the side. He didn’t like to think why the kid might be looking to make bigger scores. “I know guys. Are you really interested in this, Neal, or is it something for your dad?”

Neal’s face fell. “No, it’s not for him. It’s for me. I swear.”

“Fine. We’ll see. I don’t like to think of you in that role.”

“Why not?”

“Just…you’re really quite a good artist, Neal.”

“Artists starve, Mr. Moz.”

“Point taken.”

Neal missed school the next day and the morning he returned, Moskowitz noticed he was even more quiet than usual.

The class was working on painting a mural in the gym from a drawing Neal had submitted, and Moskowitz was moving among them, offering tips and direction. They were under the gun to get it completed in time for the school’s Founder’s Day the following weekend. He eased past Neal, put a hand on his arm so he wouldn’t startle the boy, when he noticed him hiss and flinch away from his touch.

“Something wrong, Neal?” Neal kept painting, ignoring him, but his face was pale and sweaty. “Neal!” he said sternly, to get his attention. Neal looked at him with guarded eyes. “Will you come with me, please?” Neal picked up his messenger bag and followed him out of the gym.

Moskowitz led Neal to an empty office near the locker room. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Mr. Moz.” He wouldn’t meet Moskowitz’s eyes.

“Don’t lie to me, I know something’s wrong.” He grabbed Neal’s left hand for emphasis, but the young man cried out and pulled away. When he looked at Moskowitz, his blue eyes were glazed with pain and full of tears.

“What happened to you, Neal?”

He didn’t respond. Moskowitz took his arm and pushed the sleeve up, exposing a large bruise that was unmistakably bone-deep spreading nearly from wrist to elbow. He breathed out through his nose, trying to calm himself. “Did your father do this to you?”

“No.”

Moskowitz lowered his voice, made his tone gentler. “I don’t believe you.”

“You’re going to have to.” He marveled at the steely note in Neal’s young voice.

Moskowitz wouldn’t back down. “If you took your shirt off, would I see foot-shaped bruises there, Neal?” Neal didn’t answer. “Would I?”

“No. It’s from a mark, OK? I…almost got caught.” The boy was crying now, and it was breaking Moskowitz’s heart.

“Come here,” he said, and pulled Neal into his arms. Neal sobbed into his shoulder, his entire body shaking.

“I…it was so scary, Moz.”

“It’s OK, kid. Shhh. We all have close calls from time to time.” He held him for a few more minutes, until he calmed down, and when they parted, he took his chin in his hand so that he was looking him in the eyes and said, “Listen to me Neal, because I need you to hear me. You’re not alone, OK? If you ever get in trouble like this again, I want you to come to me. No matter what. Got it?””

Neal sniffed and nodded. Moskowitz put his hands on his shoulders and sighed.

“Now get out of here. Go back to class.” Moskowitz watched him go, deep in thought. He’d have to think about expanding Neal’s education a bit more now, before the kid got himself seriously hurt.

\----

**March, 1997**

Moz – that was his name now, there was no way around it – had been teaching at Malden Academy for nearly the entire school year. The administration had offered him a full time gig, and he was inclined to accept it. The benefits were good, and he was able to maintain a New York address. But most of all, God damn it all to hell, the kids were beginning to mean something to him. He really did feel like he was making a difference in a few of their lives, from the shy young woman who opened up when asked her opinion in his art history course, to the fledgling arts society he was the faculty adviser for. And of course, there was Neal.

Neal Caffrey simultaneously brought out the best and worst in Moz; the best in that he could feel no more tender emotions towards the boy if he were his own son, and worst because he had unfortunately begun to teach the young man all the nefarious skills he himself had picked up over the years. To date, Neal had mastered a few of the classics – the Beijing tea scam, the melon drop, the fiddle game to name a few – but Moz managed to keep him away from the more serious aspects of the Life. He wouldn’t allow him to apprentice himself to a safe cracker – which was what it would take for Neal to fill in that particular “skillset” – instead trying to focus the boy on his more legal talents.

Neal’s artistic talents were impressive and he never ceased to surprise Moz with his depth of understanding. It was this that Moskowitz clung to as his hope for the boy – to talk him into going to art school, getting out from under the bad influences of both his father and his teacher, and make his mark on the world in a meaningful way.

One afternoon after school, Moz had set Neal to the task of reproducing Vermeer’s Girl with the Wineglass as an exercise in applying light and perspective, when they had an unexpected visitor.

“So this is where you’ve been spending your time,” David Caffrey commented from the doorway, hands in his pockets and a curious expression on his face.

“Dad,” Neal said, turning toward him. He glanced at Moz uncertainly.

Moskowitz stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Mr. Caffrey, it is a pleasure to meet you, sir. Your son is very talented. You must be very proud.”

David looked uneasy. “Yeah, he’s, uh, a chip off the old block.” David had walked into the room and was looking over some of Neal’s work. The da Vinci sketches in particular caught his eye. “You made these, son? They look as good as the real thing,” he commented.

Neal positively beamed. “Thanks, Dad.”

“So what brings you all the way down here, Mr. Caffrey?”

“I, uh, was hoping to have a parent-teacher conference with you. Discuss Neal’s future, as it were.”

Neal and Moz exchanged a look. “Sure,” Moz said. “Will you excuse us Neal?”

Neal, standing behind his father, shook his head no, but Moz gestured for him to leave. Neal sighed and did as he was told.

“You really teach Neal to do all this?” Caffrey asked when the boy had gone.

“The talent is his. I merely help him refine it.”

“Is there any money in it?”

“Well, the art world is fickle…”

“That’s not what I meant. Is my boy good enough to pass these off as the real deal?”

“If you’re asking if he has what it takes to be a forger –“

“I am.”

“Then yes, he’s got more than enough talent. But look, Mr. Caffrey – “

“I know who you are.”

“Come again?”

“I did a little homework. I know you were the Detroit mob’s go-to guy for counterfeit plates, bond forgeries, fake coins. That krugerrand job in St. Louis six years ago – that was you.”

Moz suddenly felt the room closing in on him. He had thought he’d left that life behind him and completely covered his tracks. He was apparently wrong. “I may have dabbled...” He tried to downplay his role; better if the man thought he was a schmoe.

“I’d say it was more than a little dabbling. Word is that job paid off millions. Did you even get a cut?”

Moz didn’t answer. He’d actually been paid quite well on that one, but it had had the unforeseen side effect of making him an indispensable earner in Detroit, a fact that kept him a virtual prisoner in the city far longer than he’d intended to stay.

Caffrey continued. “But when the Russians moved into town and started taking territory, you took the opportunity to lam it, I hear. What would Johnny B. pay to have his long, lost golden goose back?”

Still, Moz did not react – what was there to say – Caffrey had him cold. “What do you want, Caffrey?”

“Teach my kid what you know. If what you’re saying is true, Neal’s probably the best forger to come up in years – probably since you, wouldn’t you say?”

“He’s better, actually.”

“Teach him what you know, and I’ll forget I ever met Odin Moskowitz.”

Moz looked at him for a long minute, weighing his options. Who was he kidding, he basically had two – do this or return to Detroit. It was disappointing – he really had higher hopes for Neal’s talents. “Neal?” he called out.

Neal, who’d been standing outside the door eavesdropping, popped his head into the room. “Yes?”

“Neal, your father is blackmailing me to teach you how to forge paintings and documents. Does this interest you?”

Neal stepped into the room, eyes wide. “Yes.”

“Fine. We’ll start Monday.” He looked at the elder Caffrey and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll do this, but you realize it will take time. Years. You ready to wait that long for a payoff?”

“I spent ten years in Rahway, Moskowitz, I can wait for anything.” With that, David Caffrey turned to go, pausing to give his son a playful punch on the arm. Moz didn’t miss the boy’s flinch when his father made a move towards him.

When he’d gone, Neal walked up to Moz, eyes wide. “I didn’t tell him a thing, Mr. Moz. I swear.”

Moz smiled fondly at him. “I know. Get back to the Vermeer.”

“OK,” Neal said, returning to his work table and picking up his brush. He looked up, a curious look on his face. “Odin?”

“My mother was into Norse mythology. Shut up.”

\----

**Summer, 1997**

Time passed quickly, Moz and Neal focusing as ever on the young man’s painting. Moz believed they still needed to focus on the basics before getting anywhere near the chemistry and physics involved in aging a painting, or mixing period-specific pigments.

With summer quickly approaching, they would be without the school to serve as the location for their sessions, so Moz decided to share his addresses with Neal.

“Addresses?” Neal repeated, looking at the list in his hand. There were seven, one for each day of the week, and Moz moved constantly from one to the next as a precaution in case he was spotted by anyone from his former life.

“Yeah. Commit them to memory, Neal, because I’ll ask that you destroy that paper.”

“Already done,” Neal said, tearing the paper up into tiny bits. “When do we start?”

\----

One afternoon in mid-July, Neal and Moz sat in a café in SoHo sipping Italian sodas. Wednesday was not air-conditioned, so they’d fled to the relative coolness of the city’s streets.

“You coming back to Malden in September, Mr. Moz?”

“I am,” Moz replied with a smile. “I find it strangely rewarding.”

Neal smiled the kind of smile that would get him into women’s pants and a mark’s confidence later in life. But today, he was just a happy kid with a lemon soda. “That’s good. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“You’re going to be a senior. Have you given any thought to what college you want to go to?”

Neal’s face fell. “I don’t think I get to go to college, Mr. Moz.”

“Why not?”

“Who’s going to pay for it?”

“There are scholarships, and loans you could apply for. I could help you. Being a teacher at a snooty place like Malden’s got to mean something.”

“What about my dad?”

“He’ll come around. When we lay out for him that it will help you on the long con, he can’t say no. Once you’re away from him, Neal, well, you can write your own ticket, kid.”

Neal got a far-away look on his face. Leaving his father behind both excited and scared him. He looked at Moz with a look of trepidation. Moz patted him on the back. “Don’t worry. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, eh?”

Neal laughed. “Yeah.”

“Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“OK.”

Moz’s brain was already whirring.

\----

**September, 1997**

The school year started up again, and Neal continued his training with Moz after school every day, and sometimes on weekends. One afternoon, Moz slipped a piece of paper and a booklet across the table at Neal. “What’s this?”

“NJ State driver’s manual and practice tests. You’re turning 17 in a month. Don’t you want to get a license?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it. We don’t have a car.”

“’Tis a rite of passage, my son. Besides, you’ll need an ID to travel, to vote. It’s all good. Study that. I’ve seen you boost cars before, so I know you know how to drive. Now let’s make it official.”

Neal looked sheepish at having been caught stealing a car. Truthfully, he did it for kicks, returning the car to the same spot he’d found it. A good friend had taught him the basics while he was briefly in a foster home he’d lived in after his grandmother died. He felt a stab of grief and regret remembering of his friend Nick, but shook it off. “OK. What do I have to do?”

Appropriately enough, Moz took Neal to his driver’s license road test in a stolen car on his 17th birthday. He signed all the paperwork as Neal’s guardian, showed a forged proof of insurance (Neal’s first forgery – a minor one but significant nonetheless), and watched with pride swelling in his chest as his boy passed with flying colors. Laughing, they returned the car to the shopping mall where they’d boosted it (but at a different entrance – Moz couldn’t resist fucking with the owner’s head), and hopped a bus back to the city.

Moz treated Neal to a birthday dinner – pizza followed by frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity. Neal had finished his own dessert and was starting in on Moz’s when he slid a file folder across the table to the boy. “What’s this?” he asked around a mouthful of chocolate.

“Colleges,” Moz answered, a slight smile playing around his lips.

Neal swallowed. “I can’t apply to college, Mr. Moz.”

“You already did. These are the ones you’ve been accepted to.”

Incredulous, Neal opened the file and found acceptance letters to not just one, but three of the top fine arts programs in the country. Rhode Island School of Design, UCLA, Cranbrook Academy – all had accepted him into their programs through early admission. He looked up at Moz, speechless.

“Miss Dante helped with the applications,” Moz said, referring to one of the school’s guidance counselors that he was a little sweet on. “She thinks you made the applications yourself, so…”

“How can I thank you?”

“By going to school, kid. Don’t waste your talent pulling petty cons. You’re meant for better things.”

They shared a silent moment, Neal poking at his dessert and rifling through the paperwork. “Where should I go?”

“That’s up to you. But if it were me, I’d opt for the warmer climate.”

\----

Later that night, Neal sat on his sofa bed, legs drawn up to his chest, his driver’s license and the letters arranged around him, marveling at his sudden good fortune. He knew he was staring at his tickets to a life away from here – a possibility he had never seriously entertained before, despite what Mr. Moskowitz told him about his talent. But for now, he was mostly as pleased as he could be that he’d scored a driver’s license – now he could start saving for a car.

“What have we here?”

Neal jumped. He hadn’t heard his father enter the apartment. Normally, he was always vigilant, leaving nothing that might betray his true feelings or intentions about the apartment. His sketches he kept on his person or at school; his diary was in his messenger bag at all times; even the money he’d managed to skim off of his scores over the last year or so was in a bank – safe from his father’s drunken grasp. But his daydreaming about the future had distracted him and he wasn’t able to hide the college letters away in time.

He looked up at his father. He could smell the whisky on him; it fairly leaked from his pores. “Colleges, dad. Thought it would be fun to see if I could get in.”

David was not fooled. “Thinking of leaving your old man?”

“Of course not.” Neal ducked his head down, not making eye contact, shoved the letters back into the folder.

“And what’s that?” David indicated the driver’s license.

“My license. Mr. Moskowitz took me. It’s my birthday today.”

“Well, happy fucking birthday. Tell me, is that Mr. Moskowitz of yours going to put you through school, too? College ain’t cheap.”

Neal glanced up at him, took in his glazed eyes, the set of his shoulders and knew he was in trouble. His forays into the con game lately had sharpened his ability to read a person’s body language, and this one was screaming imminent violence – get out. He snatched up the license and shoved it in his back pocket. He scrambled off the bed and asked his father if he’d like some coffee.

“No, I don’t want coffee!” he hissed, grabbing Neal’s arm as he passed him. Neal hadn’t been headed to the kitchen but for the door. He looked up at his father, and his eyes went flat with fear.

“Dad, no.” he twisted away, wrenching his shoulder badly but getting away, the extra tutelage with Moz finally paying off, but David's right arm shot out and grabbed him by the shirt.

“I’ll give you coffee,” he muttered, shaking him violently. He slapped him, open handed – he usually avoided leaving bruises on Neal’s face, his money-maker as he called it – and shoved him against the wall. Neal’s head left a dent in the plaster; he saw stars and sank to the floor, dazed. David hauled him to his feet again and began punching him in the gut, twice, four times, by the sixth he was panting, his arms shaking and he dropped Neal to the floor. That was when the kicking began. Neal tried to crawl away, earning him a kick to the head. Mercifully, he passed out.

When Neal came to, it was to the sound of snoring. He was lying on his side by the door; his father was sprawled on the sofa bed on his back, sawing wood. Neal struggled to a sitting position, wincing. He thought this time he might have a cracked rib for sure. And he was feeling a bit dizzy. He sought out the wall and leaned against it, breathing heavily while the dizziness passed, and did a quick inventory. The back of his head was throbbing; when he put a hand there, it came back sticky with blood. His shoulder wouldn’t work – he figured it was probably dislocated. He’d already come to a conclusion about the ribs, and his belly felt like it was on fire. He sank down to the floor again, hoping the room would stop spinning, that he’d begin to feel a bit better, so that he could eventually pull it together and get out of there. His dad was usually very remorseful after one of these “incidents,” but had never been one for the nursing. Something inside Neal knew he needed more help than an Ace bandage and handful of Advil would give.

His muddy brain remembered what Mr. Moz had said all those months ago: “If you ever get in trouble like this again, I want you to come to me. No matter what.” He knew what he had to do. He pushed himself to a seated position, crawled back towards the sofa bed to retrieve his messenger bag from where he’d left it leaning. He pulled it over his shoulder, hissing as the muscles pulled, but making it work eventually. He rested his injured arm on top of the bag, using it as a makeshift sling, turned and headed for the door. He was struck with the realization that he’d never see the place again, but didn’t spare it another glance, or his old man.

Thus began Neal Caffrey’s policy of never looking back.

\----

Moz entered the lobby of the building that housed “Tuesday” with a slight spring in his step. He had meant to give the special horsehair brushes he’d ordered to Neal as a birthday present, and in the rush to get to the NJ DMV on time had completely forgotten to take them. He didn’t think the boy would mind, but he felt a little bad for not having given him the gift on his birthday.

When he turned into the hall, he saw a body huddled next to his door. He rushed forward and realized with a sick feeling that it was Neal. He was lying on his side in a fetal position, facing the door. “Neal!” he breathed, “Oh, my God.” He reached down, felt that the boy’s pulse was strong in his neck, and rolled him over on to his back, supporting his head. There was blood on his hand when he pulled it back. He looked down at Neal, saw the angle his right shoulder was in was not quite right and surmised it was dislocated. He stood, unlocked the door and stepped over Neal to enter, flicking the hall light on. He then crouched down and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him into the apartment.

Moz left Neal on the floor and went to fetch first aid supplies. When he returned, he knelt beside him and gently lifted each of his eyelids. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be looking for, but his pupils reacted as expected to the bright overhead light, so that had to be a good thing, right? Neal groaned and twitched, opened his eyes. He looked around wildly for a second, confused, but when he saw Moz, he relaxed and sighed with relief. “It was Tuesday,” he breathed.

“What?”

“Tuesday. I couldn’t remember what day it was before...”

“What happened, Neal?”

“Would you believe me if I said I fell?”

“No. Who did this? Was it your father?” 

Neal didn’t answer, but wouldn’t lie to Moz; the truth was plain in his eyes anyway. He clutched at his belly with his left arm, tried to curl up on his side, whimpering from the pain. “God!” he gasped, panting, the pain in his ribs making his breathing shallow.

Moz’s shaking hand hovered over him, he didn’t how to comfort him. He was moaning like a wounded animal and it was almost too much for Moz. He stood, went to get the phone from the kitchen and returned, knelt beside him.

Neal’s hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t. Please. No cops,” he begged.

Moz looked at him sadly. “No Neal, this time, yes to the cops. I’m calling 911.” He took Neal’s hand in his, let him squeeze it. Neal hugged it to his chest as Moz gave his address to the operator.

“Mozzie, help me, Mozzie, please.” Neal cried, squeezing his hand in a death grip. Moz pushed Neal’s hair out of his face with his free hand, palmed his cheek to get his attention. “Listen to me Neal, they’ll be here soon. Just breathe through it, OK? Just breathe.”

Neal’s eyes focused on his and Moz began to take deep breaths. Neal mimicked him, calming down. He loosened his grip on Moz’s hand as the two of them continued to breathe in unison. Two minutes later, the police arrived.

“What’s going on here?”

“Where is the ambulance?” Moz asked, frantic.

“Three minutes out. What happened? This your kid?”

“No, I’m his teacher. I found him in the hall. How long for the ambulance?”

The policeman crouched down and put a hand on Moz’s shoulder. “Three minutes, maybe less. I heard the siren as I got here. It’s ok. Help is coming.”

For the first time in his life, Moz was happy to see the police. He looked at the man gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Now tell me what happened.”

“I need to report a case of child abuse.”

\----

Moz took a seat at Neal’s bedside in the recovery suite. The police officer had pulled a few strings to allow him to visit Neal in the ICU and Moz was grateful. Neal shouldn’t have to wake up alone, and it wasn’t as if his father would be able to do much good from the jail cell he knew he currently occupied.

The surgery to repair the bleeding in Neal’s abdomen had been a success and he lay on his back, right arm taped to his side to immobilize his shoulder, his belly swaddled in bandages from the chest down. He could see where bruises had formed on the few patches of the boy’s body left uncovered by the bandages, and the anger seething in his gut and in his chest threatened to overwhelm him.

He wasn’t sure if he was angrier at David Caffrey or at himself. His memory kept returning to the instances where he now knew Neal had been covering for his father – all those bruises and scrapes attributed to marks that had caught him with his hand in their pockets; he should’ve known – Neal was too good to get caught. The black eye that had supposedly come from an overly active game of basketball in gym class. Moz should’ve seen that Neal was lying, because he’d been that kid once upon a time. He’d been the one covering for the abuser, so afraid of what lay outside the home he’d rather take a beating than be sent away.

It was an oversight that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Neal stirred in his bed, shifted a little, and Moz sat forward in his chair. A few minutes later, he opened his eyes and looked at him. Moz could see the relief there and silently thanked the cop again for getting him in here. “Hey,” Moz said, forcing a smile on his face. “Good to see you awake.”

“Mozzie,” Neal greeted, smiling. “Hospital?”

“Yeah.”

Neal nodded and drifted off again.

He slept another several hours and Moz stayed at his side the whole time. The nurses brought him coffee and pastries, silent tributes for a man who’d saved a life, but he couldn't help but think he didn’t deserve it. If he’d acted sooner, they wouldn’t be here.

He dozed fitfully in the chair until dawn. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Neal was awake and looking at him. He sat up, leaned forward, put his hand on the railing of the hospital bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Not as bad as last night. Thank you.”

Moz looked down at his shoes. “I did what anyone would’ve done.”

“You saved my life. And you care about me. I haven't had that in a long time”

“I should have done something sooner.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted it sooner. Don’t blame yourself for something you had no control over.”

“I can blame myself for a whole lot of things, Neal.”

Neal reached up his hand and placed it over Moz’s on the railing. “I’m asking you not to.”

Moz nodded. He took a deep breath, feeling a change of subject was in order. “Hey, look at this.” He pulled an envelope out of his jacket. “It arrived yesterday; I picked it up after you left the restaurant.” He held it in front of Neal’s eyes.

“The Paris-Sorbonne? Mr. Moz, you didn’t…”

“Meh – Rhode Island’s a safety school. Want me to open it?” Neal nodded and he tore the envelope open. “Crap, it’s in French. Let’s hope my verb tense isn’t as rusty as it used to be…”

\----

Moz stayed with Neal almost non-stop while he was in ICU, but when he was transferred to a semi-private room two days later, he decided he needed to go home and get some sleep and a shower, check in on his job. He left pictures of the elder Caffrey with all of the nurses on the floor; he’d been let out on bail and though he thought it unlikely he’d try to visit his son, Moz was taking no chances.

When he returned to the school, he went to the office to report in, let them know he wouldn’t need a substitute for that day. All of the secretaries came rushing over, giving out hugs and kisses to let him know what a great thing he’d done in saving Neal. He accepted their well wishes and pats on the back amiably, but couldn’t help but feel a fraud. He took his leave as soon as he could and returned to the classroom.

Late in the day, as his last class filed out, he spotted an unwelcome face in the hallway. David Caffrey. He waited until the room was empty and entered, shutting the door behind him. Moz could tell he was angry.

“What do you want, Caffrey?”

“You called the cops on me.”

“Yes, I did. And I’d do it again. How dare you come here?”

“How is he?”

“He could’ve died.”

“I want to see him.”

“You’ll never see him again, not if I have anything to do with it.”

“I’m his father.”

“Well, maybe you should act like it. Do you know what the job of a father is? It’s to protect and to nurture and to provide. What have you provided? How have you protected him? All you’ve done is put him on the street to earn for you, which he did, by the way, and how did you thank him? With abuse and pain and neglect. You are the poorest excuse for a father I’ve ever run across, Caffrey, and believe me, I’ve seen my fair share.” Moz was truly angry now, advancing on David, the force of his anger causing the taller man to back into the wall.

“He’s my son. Not yours.”

“I would be the luckiest man on the planet to call that kid my son,” Moz said quietly, his voice shaking. “Now get out of my sight before I call a cop. I’ve got a few on speed dial now.”

Caffrey turned to go, had a thought and turned back. “You’ll never have him,” he sneered. “I’ll call Johnny B. in Detroit. I’m sure he’ll be interested in knowing he can hook up with his old friend here in New York.”

Moz flinched as if he’d been struck. So there it was – the thing he’d been expecting and hoping he’d never hear – the sound of the other shoe dropping.

\----

Moz stood by Neal’s bed, watching him sleep. His color was so much better today, and the nurses told him he’d taken a bit of solid food at lunch, which was a relief. The surgeon had reported that Neal would recover fully, with a fairly nasty scar that he assured him would fade almost completely over time. Moz figured he had another day or two before he had to leave. How was he going to break it to the boy?

Neal woke a few minutes later and smiled at him, happy to see him. One look at Moz’s face and he knew something was up; the kid was too perceptive by half. “What’s wrong, Mr. Moz?”

“I had a visit from your father today.”

“And?”

“And he is going to be making a few calls to some old friends in Detroit.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, kid.” He couldn’t stop the tears that were forming in his eyes. “I’ve got to leave.”

“When?”

“Two days, max. We’ll spend them together, though. I won’t leave you before I have to.”

Neal looked at him for a full minute, and Moz could see the emotions flitting across his face: fear, concern and finally, determination. “That’s great, Mr. Moz,” he said, “but you need to be making plans. Where will you go?”

“I hadn’t thought –“

“You’ll need a passport. Can’t leave a paper trail. You should leave from Toronto. Less scrutiny in Canada. Maybe head to the islands for a while.”

“What? How do you know about all this?”

“Always have an exit strategy. You taught me that. Listen, you can hang low in the Caribbean until I get better, then we can go to Paris.”

“What? Paris?”

“Of course. I got into the Sorbonne, Mr. Moz. There’s no way I’m not going now.”

“You can’t be lamming it with me. I won’t allow it.”

Neal looked at him, an earnest expression on his face. “There’s nothing left for me here, Mr. Moz. I can’t stay, and you know it. Besides, you’ll need someone who will have your back. I’m your guy.”

“You’ve got to graduate first, Neal.”

“Like you can’t forge a little thing like a high school transcript? Please.”

\----

**Present day**

Neal finished his story with a sigh and looked up at Peter, who sat facing him with his mouth slightly agape. “So that’s why you never finished high school?”

“Yeah.”

“And your dad?”

“Moz flew back to testify against him. I did not. He got eighteen months. I haven’t seen him since.”

“What happened in Paris? All I know is you dropped out after your second year.”

Neal smiled. “That’s a much happier story, and maybe I’ll tell you some day.”

“Some day?”

“Well, once the statute of limitations expires. Now, I’m starving. How about some of your famous apple pancakes?”

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
